


Worm in The Apple, August 1976

by BobbyCrocker101



Category: Kojak (TV 1973)
Genre: 1970s, Anger, Detectives, Gen, Grafitti, Grim Reapers, Knife Killings, Knife Murders, Knives, Manhattan South, Murderers, NYPD, New York City, Rage, Serial Killers, homicides, murders, spray paint, stabbings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobbyCrocker101/pseuds/BobbyCrocker101
Summary: Kojak’s thoughts concerning the events that occurred in the Season 4 episode ‘Out of the Shadows’ with a few changes and bits added.This is an original story set in August 1976The 'apple' in the title refers to New York's nickname 'The Big Apple'Feedback welcome





	Worm in The Apple, August 1976

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters belong to me; I'm just playing with them for a while before putting them back in their box. No money is being, or will be made from this story.
> 
> I was 15 in September 1973 when "Kojak" first aired, and had other things to do. Now retired, I’ve finally watched this wonderful old TV show for the first time. I’m from the UK and have never visited the US, but have made use of the internet to gain information about the NYPD and the city of New York. I apologise in advance for any language confusion.
> 
> In the Season 2 episode “Nursemaid” (1974) Crocker’s ID shows him to have been born in 1943 which would make him 30 in 1973, but because he's occasionally referred to as being very young and is often called "Kid" or "Junior", my version of him was born in 1951 which makes him 25 in this story, and as little is known about his back story, I've made up my own.
> 
> Original characters: Detective Steinway, Detective Bigelow.
> 
> Spoilers: Huge spoilers for the Season 4 episode 'Out of the Shadows'.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Crocker!” I yelled as I opened my office door and walked out into the squad room. It was 9pm and he was just arriving for work. I told him he was an hour late and then asked him where he’d been. To start with he tried to be smart by telling me he’d been in Bermuda. Then he told me he’d been stuck in the Holland Tunnel for forty minutes with five hundred other commuters, the temperature had been one hundred and ten degrees minimum, and there had been a three-hundred pound pregnant woman, with claustrophobia. I was about to ask him WHY he'd been in the Holland Tunnel, since I knew he lived ten minutes away in the opposite direction, but then I remembered him saying something about going across to Jersey to spend some time with an Army buddy who lived in a VA residential home in Edison. He went to freshen up and my attention turned to the activity in the squad room.

The place was in chaos. The temperature was unbearable, and so was the continuous noise of people, typewriters and... mousetraps? I looked across at Sergeant Al Vine who appeared to be at the end of his tether. Sitting nearby were two young punks who were belligerently snapping mousetraps. I asked him what was going on. He informed me that the kids had been brought in as potential witnesses to the murder last Thursday of a Mrs Arloff who had been an evangelist of some kind. There was a serial killer on the loose in the city and she had been his most recent victim. The two young men were known to practically live on the bench near where she had been found. But it turned out that on THAT particular day they’d been picked up early by some friends and had not been in the park at the time of the murder. 

Drink in hand I headed off to the captain’s office for some peace and quiet. He was sitting in semi-darkness, a fan on the corner of his desk was blowing cool air and soft music was playing on the radio. I commented that the scene reminded me of a hospital elevator. Patients need soothing music he told me, to isolate them from fear and anxiety. I told him I was sorry he was sick but he couldn’t hide in his office; the moon was full, the humidity was at ninety, and the streets were full of 'werewolves', so pipe the music outside to where the REAL patients were! I picked up the fan and holding it in front of my face walked across the room to look at a map on the wall above the file cabinet. A number of coloured pins with tags marked the locations of our serial killer’s handiwork. 

“Where’s the sense in anything?” I asked no one in particular. “This clown kills a lady who teaches spiritual guidance, a guy who rents out apartments, a Puerto Rican garage mechanic, a department store salesman and a clerk in a supermarket: plain ordinary non-descript victims; no rhyme, no reason, no direction. Then the next day he spray-paints messages on walls.” I held the fan to my face and remarked that it could be anybody next. Frank informed me that the police psychiatrist thinks the guy wants to get caught, but if THAT'S the case who’s stopping him? I rammed my paper cup into the fan out of frustration.

At that moment Crocker came into the room and, after acknowledging the captain informed us that the ‘Grim Reaper’ as our serial killer was known had 'done it again'; a pawn shop owner on 53rd and 8th. Frank threw his glasses onto his desk while I threw the fan on top of the file cabinet.

****

At the crime scene Frank searched through the victim’s wallet. There was fifty-five dollars, and some credit cards; all untouched, in the name of Louis Semmelman. I looked at Crocker and asked how many stab wounds there had been THIS time. He informed us there had been three. He added that the killer must be one angry guy to stab someone three times when ONCE would have been enough. THIS from our very own hot-head! I began to walk away and angrily threw the paper cup I’d been holding down onto the sidewalk. I turned round and looked at Crocker and told him straight that I want every man available posted for five blocks around the murder scene because the NEXT time this ‘fruitcake’ sprays his message I want him! Then Frank and I headed back to the precinct leaving my detective in charge of the clear-up operation.

****

The following morning found me standing on a roof with Saperstein in a hundred degrees of heat. As ordered Crocker had got every man available posted in various positions around 53rd and 8th. From my perch I could see Tracy and Stein. On a roof directly opposite I could see Vine and Bigelow. Down on the street I could see Crocker and Rizzo standing next to a shoeshine stand. I spoke into the radio, reminding everyone that each time the killer has struck he’s painted his messages between nine and eleven o’clock the following morning, and we know he could pick any location within a few blocks of the crime; anything from a billboard to the wall of a subway rest room. It was now nine-thirty.

I asked myself why our killer always paints his signs in the daytime; why not at night, right after he’s killed? Like the police psychiatrist Saperstein suggested that maybe it’s because the guy wanted to get caught, but in that case all he had to do was turn himself in.

At that moment Crocker radioed to say screams had been heard outside the Leonide Hotel; one block down from the pawn shop. I saw my detectives run across the street toward the hotel, but by the time I arrived our suspect had got away. Crocker and Rizzo had chased him up to the roof, but before they could grab him he’d escaped by jumping down into a passing open-topped garbage truck. I was annoyed, but at least they'd got a look at the man and would be able to put out a description. 

****

A large crowd had gathered at the front of the hotel. In the lobby Crocker was talking with a Mrs Oriva, the woman whose screams he’d heard, her clothing was covered with red paint. I asked him to take her to the station and get a full report, a description of the man, and to have a word with the police sketch artist. In the meantime Saperstein had found another possible witness.

I looked at the sprayed message on the wall ‘Death to the money lenders, the Reaper.’ The captain came over and asked how we should proceed. Should WE start spraying messages on walls as well to invite the killer to give himself up, he asked. I told him we needed to find the pattern, but as he pointed out, the pattern is; there IS no pattern. We headed outside, passing Sergeant Prince from Forensics who was busy scraping paint off the lobby wall.

Outside in the sun Frank commented that he thought our killer had some kind of geographic formula worked out; that he’s sticking pins in maps, just like WE were. Only HIS pins told him where to kill. In the meantime I’d been thinking and I’d realised something. Our killer’s messages were all about his victim’s JOBS, not about the people themselves. ‘Death to the moneylenders…’ today’s message had read; the JOB, not Semmelman. I remembered the message sprayed after the murder of the revivalist; ‘The Lord’s retribution is tardy…’ the JOB not the person. And after the garage mechanic’s murder he’d sprayed; ‘Satisfaction not guaranteed…’ again the JOB. I had to laugh; it seemed as if we were dealing with a consumer advocate; someone who was complaining about poor service! 

Prince arrived outside carrying the empty can of paint left behind by our killer. He reported that THIS time the man had used a different kind of paint to the two used previously; Frank ordered him to get a sample over to the lab. During the past few weeks we’d made a list of the seven hundred stores in the city that sold the other two brands of paint he’d used; Hi Tone and Color Brite. But in THIS part of town it was mostly small shops, with maybe no more than fifty selling spray paint. Perhaps if we could find out which stores sold all THREE kinds, it would cut the list down. I asked Frank for enough men to cover fifty stores. Naturally he was concerned about other crimes in other places, but I told him they’d have to be patient. Perhaps we could find a clerk who remembered selling the paint to a man fitting our killer’s description. Frank being Frank had to spoil the moment and take our rainbows away when he mentioned that we don’t know if the guy always buys his paint at the SAME store. We’re getting close, I told him; our ‘baby’ is out there and he’s planning again.

****

Later that afternoon Frank and I were in his office, both of us on the phone - he has two. Someone from the papers had found out about our being involved in ‘an incident’ at the Leonide Hotel and wanted an exclusive, but Frank was refusing to cooperate. In the meantime I was on the phone to the lab. I put the phone down and opening the office door yelled for Crocker. He arrived with the artist's sketch of our killer and informed me that it was on its way down to the print room and copies would be in every squad room in time for morning roll call.

I told him I’d received the report from the lab on the spray paint. Today’s message was sprayed with a colour called ‘Toro Red’ which is manufactured by the Econo Paint Company. I asked him to check through our list for stores selling all three brands of paint we know our suspect has used; Hi Tone, Color Brite and now Econo, and reminded him that I’m only interested in the brand killers ‘dig’.

****

Later that night Crocker, Vine and I were sitting in my office. The heat was unbearable. My detectives were going through the list of stores that sold all three brands of spray paint while I stuck pins in the map on the wall to show where they were located. Crocker had found out there were fifteen stores in the Manhattan South area that stocked them. My phone rang which provided some welcome relief, although the message was not welcome. There had been another killing; a prostitute. Crocker looked devastated and asked where. Times Square, I told him, on the west side. I rammed another pin into the map.

“Maybe tomorrow morning, he’ll buy the paint first thing.” Vine suggested, trying to appear optimistic. I looked back at the map and told him and Crocker to concentrate their efforts on the three stores nearest the crime scene; the one on 23rd, the one on 30th and the one on 52nd. If this is our only shot I told them, make the stake-out perfect. 

The following morning, just after ten o’clock I received word that Crocker and Rizzo had picked up a man matching our description of the killer and were on their way back to the precinct. The man had given his name as Roger Villers, current address; a room at the Hotel Henry, and he was happy to be questioned without a lawyer present.

****

Once Villers had been arraigned Crocker and I drove over to the hotel. I had a quick look around room 2C and then phoned the captain, he sounded worried.

“You bet your keister I’m WORRIED!” he told me. “I’m WORRIED this guy will change his mind about being questioned without a lawyer!” I held the phone away from my ear; a good idea when Frank is having one of his rants. “I’m WORRIED the Press will find out. I’m WORRIED that people will rush to protect this killer before we can get a confession.” I told him reassuringly; we caught a man who bought a can of paint… “…who HAPPENS to look like the guy Crocker and Rizzo chased across a roof!” Frank finished. I told him we were close; ALL I needed was enough time to build more of a case before I interrogated him, which was the reason I was currently standing in his hotel room.

“You know how it is,” Frank continued, “the worse the crime the more WE'VE got to worry that the ‘big bad cops’ will deprive him of his rights like he deprived his victims of THEIRS. So treat him gently and hurry it up!”

I ended the call as Crocker walked into the room with a Ms Olga Nurrell who lived in the apartment across the hall; 2B. She was an attractive lady, or had been; with long greying fair hair fastened up off her face. She sounded East European; maybe Russian I thought. She asked what was going on, what we were searching for. She turned to the landlord who was standing out in the hallway and asked him if we’d shown him a warrant. I pointed out to her that since we had the consent of the building manager we didn’t need a warrant to search the room. Again she asked what it was we were looking for. Then she asked if Roger was alright. Since she’d used his first name I asked her if she knew the man who occupied the room well. She replied that she knew him, that she’d been sitting at his table when he’d moved in two months ago; they were friends she said, and then corrected herself and said they were neighbours. She asked again what he'd done. I explained to her that the way it works is that I ask the questions and SHE provides me with answers.

I asked her where he worked; she replied that he was unemployed. I asked her if he had any family; she replied that he was divorced. She asked again what trouble he was in. I ignored her question and asked her if she knew how he spent his evenings. She replied that being broke he stayed in a lot and spent most of his time in his room. I asked her if she’d seen him last night. She confessed that she hadn’t, but she had seen him earlier that morning; at about nine. I asked if she’d seen him coming in or going out, but she was getting tired of me asking questions without providing her with any answers, and told me that she wasn’t a traffic cop. I thanked her and asked Crocker to escort her back to her room and to get her telephone number.

At that moment Sergeant Vine emerged from the bathroom carrying a can of paint wrapped in his handkerchief. A mirror hung on the wall next to the curtain. Surrounding it were press clippings about the murders and other articles with bits circled with red ink. I asked him what we had.

“We got all these press clippings on the wall and an almost empty can of red paint,” he replied. I asked him about the knife. Pointing across the room he replied that all he’d found was the usual kitchen stuff in a drawer under the hot plate. I informed him that the coroner had found a piece of the tip of the murder weapon in the prostitute’s body. It was dull and olive drab; like a war surplus bayonet. Vine said he’d not come across anything like that during his search. I already had Saperstein and a team outside checking the drains and garbage cans; perhaps THEY'D have more luck.

****

Back at the precinct we were gathered in the interrogation room with our prisoner. I was sitting on a desk in the corner, Crocker was standing over by the door leaning against a file cabinet, and Frank was leaning against the wall facing Roger Villers who was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the room. He looked as if he was about to explode. I thought I had enough on my plate with Crocker’s hot head, but he had nothing on THIS guy.

“So a restaurant serves cold toast and lousy coffee and I get ‘pulled in’ for buying a can of paint...” Villers began. “Rape, murder; you sign an oath when you join the force; ‘preserve law and order’. BIG joke,” he continued, “you guys ought to be arrested for misrepresentation; for pretending to care, pretending to be concerned.” Frank reminded him we were talking about paint.

“You wanna talk paint? OK we’ll talk paint!” He replied. Frank asked him what he had been painting. Villers replied that he wasn’t an artist. Crocker who happens to be very good at interrogations, had begun to circle the room like a vulture looking for its prey. He grabbed Villers by the back of the neck and told him to his face that he had been seen buying a can of paint.

“I spray it in the air!” Villers announced proudly. “It makes a kind of red mist. I like to look through it; a rose-coloured world!” Frank reminded him that the paint used this time was Blood Red not Rose.

“So they ran out of Rose! I guess a lot of people have the SAME idea about this crumby world!” Villers replied. I reminded him that he’d sprayed it at a woman yesterday. He claimed not to remember. I told him she’d identified him to a ‘T’. Crocker asked where Villers had been last night, but he was reluctant to say and claimed it was ‘personal’. Frank asked if he’d been with a woman. Villers backed down and said he’d been with his neighbour, but Ms Norrell had already told us she hadn’t seen him last night.

Crocker reminded him that a woman had been killed six blocks from his room. By the SAME man who'd killed a pawn broker, a mechanic AND a phoney evangelist, Frank added. Villers started to fidget in the chair and asked if he could have a drink of water. The captain continued, asking him what his special interest was in the ‘Grim Reaper’.

“You cut out newspaper clippings; you make notes about his victims. What are you doing, starting a library?” Villers belligerently told us that Dick Tracy had lost its charm. Crocker asked him about the messages he’d been spraying on the walls. Villers asked what messages.

“Retribution is tardy…” I recited from memory; “Satisfaction not guaranteed...” Villers remarked that whoever had written the messages was a poet. HE was an engineer - on occasion anyway. It was unbearably hot in the room and I could see Crocker was getting frustrated. He pointed out that Villers was laughing at us. The man repeated his request for a drink of water. I nodded to Crocker who fetched a cup for him.

I could see Frank was also getting cranky.

“Water,” he said. “I’d like to DROWN him. I’m tired of going easy on this creep! I’m going to break him down even if I have to hide him in the basement and scrap all the rules!” Crocker agreed with him and offered his support. At that moment Villers raised the cup of water and toasted us.

“To all of us who have found true compassion…” The captain reacted first and slapped the cup of water out of Villers’ hand. I told Frank to take it easy, and told our prisoner that he had to understand that the captain was under a LOT of pressure; the whole department was, thanks to HIM. I told him I’d like this whole thing to end; send him to a nice hospital where he could get lots of rest. To my surprise Villers agreed to cooperate and asked what he had to do. I patted him on the shoulder.

“Tell us about the killings,” I told him, “tell us how you did it, why and when.” Villers started to shake and I realised he was laughing. He let out a cheer. Angrily I pushed him out of the chair in the direction of Crocker who was standing opposite. He grabbed our prisoner by the collar. Villiers then made some comment about it being all in fun, which set my detective off.

“FUN? YOU CALL KILLING SIX PEOPLE FUN?” he yelled. Villers asked what people? Frank stepped in and told our killer that we know the truth. He made some snide remark and before either Frank or I could react Crocker went for him. Thankfully Frank was able to pull our detective off before any damage was done, although I did notice Villers was holding his hand against his face. He’d got off lucky I thought. Quietly Frank handed a microphone to our prisoner and switched on the tape recorder. Villers began to speak.

“I, Roger Villers, am the ‘Grim Reaper’. I kill the unjust, the unkind, the unfair, the unworthy. I kill the pawnbrokers who offer you pennies for the things you can’t bear to sell. I kill the women who promise you pleasure you never get. I kill the ministers; the fakes, who promise deliverance with their cheap rituals. The garage mechanics who cheat you with their bills. The employment people, who stuff you in ANY job just to get their commission,” He started to cry. Frank asked if he was putting on an act, but he shook his head. “No act: names, places, all of it; whatever I can remember.”

“How many times did you stab them?” 

“Four or five times each.”

“What kind of knife did you use?”

“Switch blade.” A light went on in my head.

“How long did you plan the murders before you did them?”

“I don’t know; I don’t remember. It mostly just comes and goes. All I know is: I get the idea and suddenly I’m there and then I don’t remember; I black out.” Suddenly he cried out; “Oh God, GOD; please take me from this rotten life, PLEASE!”

****

An hour later out in the squad room I'd poured myself a cup of coffee and was sitting on the table thinking about the interrogation. Something didn’t quite add up. A few minutes later Frank joined me.

“Twenty-six years,” he began, “and I still can’t get used to it: the anger, the rage; the sickening rage in that man. Every word that comes out; it just makes you want to be ill.” I told Frank Villers is a pretty bitter guy.

“Well we’ve got the bitter and the sweet,” Frank replied. “We’ve got the facts, the details, the number of blows and the times of death…” At that moment Rizzo walked by. I stopped him and ordered him to get hold of Saperstein and see if he needed any more men on the weapon detail, and to check out the teams questioning the people who knew the victims and tell them to meet up as soon as they thought they could put together some kind of composite of the man we’re looking for.

Frank asked what I was doing. I repeated back Villers’ words; ‘God take me from this rotten life’. Frank looked at me.

“I’m not God, but I AM still the officer in charge of the case, aren’t I Frank?” 

“But he CONFESSED!” The captain rightly pointed out. But we get someone in the precinct pretty much every day confessing to SOMETHING I reminded him.

“But he had ALL the facts!” Frank continued. So have ALL the newspapers I replied.

“But he’s saying things the papers DIDN'T print.” Frank pointed out. That was because he’d visited every crime scene, but AFTER the crime not before. I’d bet money on it. I told him. Frank let out a sigh. 

“So much for best laid plans,” he began, “I was going to phone the Mayor; I was going to phone the DA. I was going to spend a happy hour or two on the work schedule to give the men some time off because they deserve it after all the hard work they'd put in on this case. I was going home to introduce myself to my wife. I was going to turn on my air conditioning. Now you tell me WHY I can’t do any of those things?” I told Frank he was right, and that I was sorry about the switch blade. He asked WHAT switch blade. I told him, the one Villers used to kill the prostitute; the switch blade that broke in her ribcage. Apparently she’d had a magic ribcage. It was a switch blade when it went in, but the piece of metal the Coroner took out of her body suddenly became part of a war surplus bayonet.

“Maybe he’s trying to trick us,” Frank began, “Perhaps he’s hoping to get off.” I replied that Villers wants to hang so bad he’ll weave the rope for us. I think he’d like to be the killer so bad he can taste it, but KILLING? I didn’t think so; it’s not his ‘brand’ of insanity, so he does it by proxy. At that moment Crocker came out of the interrogation room with Villers and handed him over to Tracy. Before he was taken away I asked him where he’d bought the switch blade. He told me he’d bought it in a department store; Macy’s or Alexander’s; some place like that. As Crocker walked past I stopped him and asked him if he’d heard what Villers had just said. He replied that he had, and apologised for not picking up on it the first time. I told him I was sorry too, but not to take our prisoner down town just yet. I still hadn’t finished with him. 

“Switch blades have been illegal in New York for the past twenty years,” Frank told me. He was right, and if Villers had gone to buy one HE'D know that too. I looked across the room to where Crocker and Tracy were stood with our prisoner and looked at the man who was smiling back at me. I really wanted to smack that grin off his face.

****

That night I was in my office with Crocker, Rizzo and Frank. We were playing the interrogation tape back, trying to see if we’d missed anything else apart from the switch blade. Villers voice came over loud and clear.

“You guys put in twenty years, you can retire; you’ve got income. Me? I gotta pay a lousy $600 a month in alimony for ever.” 

I heard Crocker ask him why he’d killed the evangelist.

“I told her about my marriage problems. She said the Lord would help me if I was generous, so I gave her my money. My wife left me anyway.” 

I switched off the machine. He’d said he’d given her his money, but his name wasn’t on any of her donations lists. I asked Crocker to check the Court of Domestic Relations and to get a list of every angry and frustrated husband who’s stuck for alimony and support, and to see if he could match a name to the pawnbroker’s records and the evangelist’s donations list. He nodded and quietly left the room. I switched the tape recorder back on.

“It’s weird,” Villers' voice continued, “all you want to do is to live: get some pleasure out of a day now and then; get your wife and your kid back. But you’ve got to PAY to stay apart. You get NOTHING for your work, for your TRYING, for your MONEY; nothing but heartbreak."

I heard myself asking him why he’d killed the prostitute.

“I wanna kill EVERYONE!” he replied, “everyone who hypes you up with their ‘satisfaction guaranteed’ baloney; promises, promises!" 

“What type would you go for next?” I heard Crocker ask. 

“You know what gets to ME?” I heard myself asking, “Those old ladies on Broadway. They sit on those benches trying to look right through you. They cross the street anytime they want. They don’t care about the lights; just themselves. And innocent drivers get arrested for running them over.” Villers replied that he understood; that that’s the sort of thing that burns HIM up. I switched off the machine.

Frank commented that Villers was insane if he’d killed all those people and just as insane if he HADN'T! He wanted to know how listening to what he was saying would help us to do anything other than walk round in circles. I reminded him of the newspaper clippings stuck to the wall in Villers’ room, and the photographs, and the magazine articles with stories about fraud and dishonesty, adultery and every other vice in the Bible – all outlined in red pen. 

“This man’s bitter,” I added, “he’s angry and he’s filled with hate, just like the killer; in every way except one – he can’t get himself to kill. So he lives the killer’s acts after he’s committed them.” I asked Rizzo if he had anything to report. He confirmed my suspicions. Three separate witnesses had seen Villers at the scene of each crime, but on the day AFTER. He’d never been a customer of the pawnbroker, because we’d checked the man’s books and the name Villers didn’t appear once.

At that moment Saperstein arrived carrying an evidence bag. He’d found the knife in a sewer about two blocks from where the prostitute had been killed. He’d already had the lab look at it and they'd confirmed the knife matched, and the tip was broken. I stood up and put my jacket on. Frank looked at me, a concerned expression on his face.

“I know how these things can go, and so do YOU!" he began. “We have a very disturbed young man, we have the vague identification of a hysterical woman, and we have a small piece broken off a knife. Now I’m telling you, go slowly; take him through it, get all you can, don’t rush it.” I put my hat on and suddenly froze on the spot. 

“He’s going to kill again, and do it soon.” I told Frank, who was slightly amused by my sudden outburst and asked me if I could provide the name of the victim as well. Something had just dawned on me. “If I was filled with the same anger and bitterness that Villers had shown US, and someone sold ME a knife that broke, it would be like ALL the other ‘tricks’ life had played on me, and I would go after the man who’d sold it. I walked out of the office and grabbing Villers from the holding cage and a uniformed officer went down town to the prostitute's hotel room.

****

Having left the uniformed officer outside in the corridor I watched as Villers paced up and down the room. He asked why we were there. I told him it was part of our procedure and asked him to show me what happened. He quickly glanced behind a curtain into the bedroom and then turned back to the sitting room. I asked him if he’d used the bathroom the last time he was there. He replied that he had. I asked him how he liked the colour. He accused me of not believing him. Not difficult since I knew that before today he’d never set foot in the place.

“She was pretty,” be began, “I didn’t just pick her up… I looked for a real NICE one.” I asked if he remembered her name.

“They always lie,” he replied. “Anyway she asked for her money, she was gonna leave… and I was gonna lose her. She was pretty,” he repeated. “Pretty face, nice legs…” I picked up an item of her clothing from the chair and looked at it while he spoke. “… supposed to make you happy… good for your ego… if you’re a man, somebody to love, and you lose her.” I queried how he could possibly ‘LOSE’ a working girl. “Not THIS one,” he replied sadly. I asked WHICH one, but he started to cry and asked if we could leave. The room was stifling; I took off my tie and asked him WHICH woman he was talking about. “My wife,” he replied, “Jenny.” FINALLY I thought we were getting somewhere. “She was having an affair,” he began again. “I caught on. I followed her one day. They checked out of a motel; I checked in. I made sure I got the same room. I sat in a chair by the bed for four hours… like they were there… I was invisible; they couldn’t see me.

I asked him why he’d put himself through THAT. 

“I didn’t like something of mine being stolen from me. I could see it happening but I couldn’t stop it. I’d never do that to her… NEVER… lousy, lying, cheat. But I’m gonna get them all.” Angrily he crossed the room, knocking some ornaments over and then thumping the wall hard enough to alert the officer outside. He opened the door and looked in; I told him we were fine. I looked back at Villers.

“You may have done a lot of things that you need to escape from,” I told him, “and some things you want to pay for, but I’ve got news for you. YOU didn’t kill the woman who lived in this room. In fact I don’t think you’ve ever killed anybody. I think you know about HIM. In a way you’re closer to him than anyone else in the world - besides his victims that is. But HE killed; HE took life. YOU didn’t, and we’ll prove it.”

“He was just fighting back,” Villers replied. “I talked to people where he did those things. Maybe he was wrong, but he was just fighting back. Sometimes it gets so heavy; the pressures, the failures, the frustrations. You don’t know who to strike out at.” He looked at me and added that he’d never spoken like that with anyone before, that maybe his wife had been right; he NEEDED to talk to people. At that moment the phone rang. It was Crocker and he’d found a store where an angry man had recently phoned to complain about a faulty knife.

****

I met up with my detective on the corner near the shop. He told me that he was lucky to have 'hit gold' after only visiting five stores. 

“The salesman inside, name of Burke; some guy called him this morning, really 'bugged'," Crocker informed me.” We walked into the store. Crocker asked the salesman to tell me what he’d already told HIM. That a man had phoned, he'd been furious and demanded to speak ONLY to the person who’d sold him the knife. He hadn’t asked for the man by name, but Mr Burke had provided it anyway; Theodore Owens. Not for the first time I thought there ought to be a law preventing personal information from being given out to anyone who asked. Burke gave us Owens’ address and we raced there: me with Villers, and the uniformed officer in my car, and Crocker following in his car. 

Arriving at the apartment building we were met by Sergeant Al Vine who'd brought some extra back up. I ordered the uniformed officer to stay with Villers in the car and told Crocker to come with me. As his legs are younger than mine I told him to take the upstairs while I remained downstairs. We rang the buzzer and Owens answered. As soon as I mentioned we were police officers he began yelling for help and pressed the buzzer to release the door lock; we ran inside. Crocker made for the elevator while I remained in the lobby and organised the troops and got the building surrounded. 

I’ve no idea what happened next. From where I was positioned I heard noises outside: glass shattering followed quickly by a loud thump. I ran outside to where Al Vine was standing looking up at a broken window. A body was lying on the sidewalk next to him. For a fraction of a second I thought our killer had struck again, but let out a sigh of relief when I realised the man lying at my feet wasn't my detective. 

A small group of onlookers had already gathered and I spotted the uniformed officer and Villers standing nearby. I asked him if he knew the man. He replied that it was HIM. I told him it wasn’t, but it could have been. It could have been a lot of us I thought as Crocker emerged from the building; including YOU. Standing there watching him as he asked the uniformed officers to move the crowd back, I found myself wondering what sort of person he might have become if he’d not been rescued from the streets by his foster parents. Without their love and encouragement and with that hot head of his it didn’t bear thinking about. He saw me looking at him and smiling held up an evidence bag containing a large knife. Crocker is one of the best shots in the department. No doubt there will be some interesting talk back at the precinct later. But for now we still had work to do.


End file.
